


guiding light

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series), Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: (Just trust me okay have i ever led you guys astray?), Angst, F/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Slow-ish build-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: It feels like a final stamp on a long goodbye between them as Claire reaches out to stop him from leaving, puts a hand on his arm. He looks at her fingers curled against his forearm and feels everything he thought he’d tucked away come roaring back to life in full fuckin’ technicolor. Because that’s how it is being in love with Claire Saffitz.(Or, Brad and Claire try to find each other again.)
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 31
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

The moment that his thick, tan boots—the one’s he’d been so damn proud of this morning--cross the threshold into the swanky, design-centric space, Brad knows he’s made a mistake coming here. Around him are people dressed expensively, talking confidently about _clean lines_ and _design aesthetic._ Champagne in fluted glasses are passed around freely as the crowds shift from foot to foot, admiring what he’s pretty sure is supposed to be fashion and impatiently waiting for their turn to talk to the woman that he’d hoped to see here.

He shuffled along the edges of the room, feeling awkward and out of place, hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets, nervously readjusting his beanie and wondering if it was expected of him to take it off. The invitation to come here hadn’t come from Claire exactly, but he’d seen the postings online and overheard Molly talking about maybe swinging by to support their friend.

Claire had been in and out of the test kitchen on _Gourmet Makes_ shoots and, because apparently the universe maybe really was trying to tell him something, they found their schedules missing each other over and over again. It seemed he got more updates about her through the occasional social media posting or through the test kitchen grape vine.

(And he tried—he _really_ tried—to not let it sting that Claire texted Christina and Carla regularly, exchanged funny pictures and cute stories about the day-to-day goings on in their lives. After all, he himself hadn’t messaged her outside of their _OG Editors_ group text in months. Everything he tried to send sounded inane and pathetic—a thin stretch of a message to start a conversation. She’d see right through him and he wondered when he became so absolutely hopeless.)

This, he figured, was his last ditch effort to shoot his shot, to nudge a toe over the line, test the waters—pick your fucking metaphor. Before he let their relationship—whatever may be left of it—drift completely off course, he had to _try_ one more time.

He owed it to his dumb, pathetic heart that much. It had been carrying a torch for Claire Saffitz for far too long to give up now.

So he’d shown up at her pop-up show, planned to cheerlead her on and maybe—if the universe was feeling generous with his heart tonight—she’d agree to grabbing a cup of coffee or drink and he’d touch her hand softly and tell her everything that he’d been holding back from her, too chicken shit to say anything until the prospect of losing her became a too-real possibility.

Her laugh—so distinctive and warming and _joyful—_ reaches his ears, loud and clear above the noise of the room, interrupting his thoughts and drawing his eyes to her. In the middle of a small group of people, Claire’s distinctive grey-streaked hair can just be seen and he knows without looking that she’s probably wringing her hands or fiddling with her necklace to dispel nervous energy.

The deep breath he takes before making his way over to her fortifies him and he weaves and bobs his way through the crowd to get to her. He wants to surprise her, but he supposes he must make a scene—6’4” and horrifically underdressed—because she turns to see him before he gets there, a smile for him already firmly in place, eyes wide and sparkling.

She looks like she’s in her element; she looks like she belongs.

She looks so fucking beautiful.

“Brad! You came!”

And just like that, it’s four years ago and she’s dropping her own project to come try one of his latest fermentation concoctions. It feels like he should open his arms and let her step into them, let him wrap her up in a gentle, welcoming hug.

But for all of the flirting they’ve done —and he’s not so stupid that he doesn’t know it was at one time flirting—they’ve never allowed themselves the casual intimacy of a hug. Instead, he beams softly at her, raises an eyebrow and gestures with a wide, sweeping hand around them—narrowly avoiding a server with a tray of precariously perched champagne flutes.

“Fuckin’ A, Claire. Swanky digs you got here.” He gestures to the twinkling lights, the servers in pristine jackets, the champagne, and the photographers and team of social media promoters itching to get _the_ shot of the night. “They really brought out all the stops for ya, huh?”

She ducks her head, cheeks tinging pink, pushes her shortened hair behind her ear, and he knows without asking that as relieved as she is to have some of the weight of her hair off her shoulders, she’s missing her braid.

“Yeah, they went a little overboard. It’s just an apron. It’s too much.”

“Naw,” he says softly, eyes tracking hers. “Not for you.” It comes out a little too reverent, a little _too_ revealing and he looks away at the look on Claire’s face—mouth parting and eyes widening.

“Look, I just wanted to stop by and tell you how happy I am for ya and that I’m, y’know, uh, here for you. Any time.”

Claire smiles at him, eyes crinkling. “Brad, that means—that means a lot. Truly.”

The crowd of people behind her—fans, agents, future business partners—shuffle and shift and Brad can feel their eyes on them, makes him feel hot and under scrutiny. He feels like he’s intruding, taking her away from what she’s supposed to be doing tonight: schmoozing and networking. He doesn’t belong here.

Brad rubs a hand over his neck, shrugs. “Yeah, well, it ain’t all cheerleadin’ support. I had to scope out the competition,” he teases.

Her head cocks to the side, brow furrowing. “Competition?”

He laughs. “Yeah, Claire. Your apron versus mine? Had to see what you were wheelin’ and dealin’?”

But she doesn’t laugh, doesn’t play along and tell him that he’s gonna eat her dust. Her lips part and move but no words come out, her fingers twist into the hem of her shirt. “You got an apron collaboration, too? _Brad._ I didn’t—I didn’t know. That’s amazing. Wow.”

Her voice sounds distant and taken aback. She really didn't know. The buoyant bubble of hope bursts as the universe—in all her glory—reminds him of the distance between them. The smile slides from his face, hurt and embarrassment making him speak quickly and dismissively, anything to get him out and away quickly.

“Oh, _yeah._ I mean, shit, it’s not like with some independent _fashion_ designer or nothin’. It’s really not that big of a deal, seriously.”

“Brad—“

“Hey, Claire? There’s some people wanting to talk to you when you’re done here.” It’s one of the social media promo guys, thumb gesturing over his shoulder toward a fresh group of fans and opportunities.

“Ryan, I’m kind of in the middle—“

Brad stops her. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m crashing your party, anyway.”

She looks stricken, panicked. “You’re not _crashing._ Brad—“

“I just wanted to say congrats in person, Half-Sour.” But even the normally warm and affectionate nickname rings hollow and he winces, takes a step back and lifts his hand from his pocket in a small, half-hearted way. “I’ll see ya around or somethin’, okay?”

It feels like a final stamp on a long goodbye between them as Claire reaches out to stop him from leaving, puts a hand on his arm. He looks at her fingers curled against his forearm and feels everything he thought he’d tucked away come roaring back to life in full fuckin’ technicolor. Because that’s how it is being in love with Claire Saffitz.

“Seriously, Brad. Thank you for coming. It means—“ She stops, searches for the right words before finally settling on, “It means a lot.”

It takes everything in him to step back and let her fingertips drag over his forearm and fall to her side, severing the connection between them. “I’ll see ya later, Claire.”

He leaves her behind with a soft, melancholy smile. It’s only when he steps out into the crisp, cool air of the New York evening that his skin stops tingling where she’d touched him.

The universe was kind of a bitch, sometimes.

____________

Claire lets the rest of the night wrap her up in a soft, hazy blur. She shakes hands and poses for photos and talks about how excited she is to be collaborating on something like this—a dream of hers since she was a little girl and reading _Vogue_ over her morning Cheerios. Champagne flutes are handed to her and she does all the things she’s supposed to at an event like this.

Except.

_Except._

She didn’t know Brad was going to come tonight—didn’t even know Brad _knew_ about the event tonight. She didn’t know Brad had an apron collaboration, too. A quick trip to the bathroom for privacy and a peak at Instragram—seriously she needed to remember this thing existed—shows that, yes, he had indeed found himself a partner to work with and design his very own apron.

(She thinks sitting on the closed toilet lid at her own party and reverently and carefully swiping through photos of his photoshoot may be the most undignified and pathetic thing she’s ever done).

In the bathroom, she splashes water on her face and swallows down the hurt and confusion she feels. One day she looked up and she was a million miles from shore, her friends and her life at Bon Appetit a million miles away. Brad and the possibility of _what if_ seemed to be back on that island, too.

He’d looked at her so strangely tonight, so sadly. Brad didn’t look right sad and despondent. The thought that something she did or didn’t do putting that look on his face felt wrong.

As she left the bathroom, ready to make her excuses and head home for the night, her introverted battery running dangerously low, she bumped into one of the event photographers who beamed at her, lifting his camera up.

“Oh, Miss Saffitz!”

She winced. That didn’t sound right at all. Still, she smiled back at him. “Hey Todd. Get anything good tonight?”

“Too much to print all at once,” he said excitedly, tilting the digital display on the back of the camera towards her. “Want to see a few? Get some early editing input?”

“Sure,” she said warmly. If she had to expend the last of her battery, she would happily do so here with something as simple as viewing pictures.

Todd began clicking through the roll, steadily narrating and awaiting her reaction. Claire had to give him credit, he did have a knack for capturing candids. No one looked posed or fake—every laugh, every gasp, every reaction. She particularly liked the one of a group of women each taking a corner of the collab apron and pulling it towards them, fanning it out and admiring the texture of the fabric.

And then—

“Wait, wait. Go back.”

Todd obliged, clicking one photo back and Claire felt her breath catch in her chest, her heartrate skyrocketing.

It was a picture—candid and unplanned—of her and Brad’s goodbye.

They’re strangely huddled together—she didn’t remember standing so close—heads bent low, gazes hooded and dark. She can see that her eyes are on the place where her fingers are curled into the soft fabric of his jacket, trying to hold him, trying to convince him without words to stay.

On her own face, she can see her emotions so clearly: confusion at his energy and words, happiness that he’d come, and—to her embarrassment— _longing._

But what surprises her is the look on Brad’s face. His eyes are focused on her hand touching him and she can see, thanks to Todd’s photograph, that his hands are balled into painfully tight fists in his pockets, like he’s holding himself back from something. Brad’s eyes, though, are on her.

It’s dark and intense and for a moment she can’t breathe through the wistful expression on his face, the way the corners of his mouth are quirked up in a sad, barely there smile. It looks like he’s saying goodbye.

“Uh, Miss Saffitz? You okay?”

She flicks her eyes to the photographer, nodding, fingertips pressed to her mouth. “Can you—can you send me this one? And then, delete it? Please?”

The wrecked, shocked feeling must be palpable because he nods, clicking a few buttons on his camera before turning to her with a solemn, ‘we’re in on this secret’ look. “Done.”

She thanks him, tells him he did a wonderful job, and makes her way over to her hosts, makes her excuses, and steps out into the night and wonders how the hell she missed what was in front of her all along.

_Brad._

Tugging her coat around her to block out the wind whipping through the city, she heads home, thinking and planning, a spark of hope—once a dying ember--fanning back to life. She smiles and thinks that if Brad were here, he’d say something about the universe being a real bitch sometimes—slapping you in the face when you least expect it.

She needs to think.

And she needs to talk to Brad.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time in a long time, Claire walks into the test kitchen before nine with a coffee in one hand a bottle of kombucha with the most intricate looking label she’s seen in a long time tucked away in her bag. 

While the kitchen didn’t have office hours per se—get in, get it done had always been the attitude—she’d noticed Brad coming in earlier and earlier and she wanted to catch him before the kitchen became too full of prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. She figured this was probably worth waking up for.

Not that she got much sleep, anyway. Every time she closed her eyes, she thought about that picture and the way Brad looked at her. Her toes had wiggled beneath her sheets impatiently as her thoughts lingered on what it meant and if she had spent so long looking down and away from him to hide her own feelings that she’d missed his own. She didn’t like the idea of missing a detail this crucial: the textured swoops on a Snickers, the delicate sponge of a Twinkie, the precise piping on a Pop Tart, and the feelings Brad Leone just might have for her. 

As she rode the elevator up to to the kitchen, butterflies filled her stomach at the prospect of broaching the subject with him. But as of late, big risk had meant big reward for her and she was willing to put herself out there one more time. 

When she turned the corner and saw him hunched over the computer in the kitchen, uncharacteristically without his beanie, typing away at some email, the butterflies returned tenfold. 

Big risk, big reward.

“Hey, Brad,” she greeted, rummaging through her bag to find the kombucha she’d picked up for him. 

Brad seemed surprised to see her—not that she blamed him. Her reputation for running chronically late was well-deserved and he’d been a first-hand witness to her tardiness, both as her former manager and as a friend. 

“Well, well, well, a rare early bird Saffitz sighting,” he teased, hands reaching for his beanie and putting it on. She sighed internally and wished she had the courage to pull it off him and tell him he didn’t need to hide from her. But first hand experience with her own hair insecurities kept her silent. He offered her a smile as he always did. “What brings you in this early?”

She beamed at him, holding out the kombucha for him, not unlike her chapstick offering so many months ago. “I got you something.” He took it from her, fingers brushing over hers in the exchange. Zips and tingles exploded and she wondered how she could have ever talked herself into believing that was a normal feeling. 

“Woah, Claire. You got this for me?” He flipped the bottle over, squinting at the ingredients and nodding his head appreciatively. “Oh _yeah_ , Claire. All natural, that’s the good stuff. And ooh, pineapple! Interesting! I woulda thought that the, uh, y’know, enzymes or whatever woulda killed off the scoby. And this bottle! Freakin’ beautiful.” He beamed at her, bottle clutched in his big hand almost reverently. “Thanks, Claire.”

“Yeah, well, I just wanted to say thank you for coming out last night. I know I said it yesterday, but I really did appreciate it. It was nice to see you there.”

His smile faltered a little and she frowned as he looked down, rolling the bottle between his hands and not looking at her. “Yeah, well, any time, Claire.” He lifted the kombucha bottle up. “And thanks for this. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, it was two-fold,” she said impishly. “I want a taste of that, so save me some.”

He let out a bark of laughter that died off in a slow, long whistle. “I see how it is. How come all your gifts to me end up being gifts for you, huh?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said innocently. They stood there, grinning at each other for a moment before she looked down, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Hey, um, are you going to be around later?”

He looked surprised. “Yeah, of course. You know me. Always floatin’ around somewhere.”

“Great! We’re shooting Warheads today, I think, so I’ll probably need some moral support from you.”

“You got it.” She liked how easily Brad was just _there_ for her—all awkwardness of the previous night forgotten. It didn’t matter that their schedules meant that they kept missing each other or that other projects kept them apart. He was there. 

She took a deep breath and a risk.“And maybe, if you’re still around later this afternoon, we can grab a coffee or something? I wanna hear more about this apron collaboration of yours.”

Brad looked at her, head tilted to the side, evaluating. She shifted under his gaze, wondering what it was that he saw, what it was that he was thinking. Had it been so long since they had a one-on-one conversation that she had forgotten how to read him? 

Finally, he nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Sounds good. Just come find me. I’ll be around.”

Relieved, she brushed by him and began setting up her station for the day, ready to kick Warheads’ ass. Everything was going to be fine—great, even. Radical confidence was finally paying off in dividends. 

______________

Warheads, she decided, could kiss her ass. Her tongue burned with the amount of citric and malic acid she’d spooned into her mouth, her lips were tinged blue and purple and green from food dye, and if she had to boil _one more_ pot of sugar, she was going to lose her mind.

Dan laughed behind the camera with every face she pulled and every _yip_ and _eep_ of displeasure at the sour candy. 

“Dan,” she whined. “This is gross. Okay, okay, I’m done testing. We need reinforcements or something.” She thought about watching Brad pop this sour monstrosity of a candy into his mouth, imagined him losing his mind, face contorting and his finger pointing at her with a look of faux betrayal. Plus she really, _really_ wanted him to make the half-sour joke she’d been dancing around all episode. 

It only felt right that he be the one to make it.

She grinned at the camera. “Let’s go find Brad.” Scooping up her tray of candies, she searched the kitchen for him, frowning with every empty, Brad-less room. He’d said he’d be around, but that was proving to not be the case.

Returning to her station, she plopped her tray down with a sigh, propping her chin in her hands. “Well, we couldn’t find Brad, so that wasn’t as exciting as I thought it was going to be. I really wanted to inflict some pain, get some sympathy.”

A Brad-shaped figure caught her eye and she perked up, ready for him. But when she turned, it wasn’t Brad at all. It was Delany. She sighed. Delany would have to do. She could sense Kevin and Dan both getting anxious to wrap up the reveal and begin shooting the introductions for thenext episode. 

“Hey, Delany,” she called, lifting one of her homemade Warheads up in the palm of her hand enticingly. “C’mere.”

The review with Delaney was exactly what Dan wanted. She and Alex had decent enough chemistry. He was fun and flirty and said all the right things about how great she did. He pulled a sour face and stuck his tongue out at her to bemoan his tinted tongue.

But he didn’t make a half-sour joke.

And he wasn’t Brad.

______________

In the back of the test kitchen, shoulder leaning against the cool metal door of the walk-in, Brad watched as Claire laughed and stuck her tongue out at Delany. 

Jealousy didn’t feel good, he decided. It wasn’t the first flare of the feeling, but he’d never felt it so keenly. But Claire was laughing and he knew that it didn’t matter that it wasn’t him at her side. The show would go on and all the clichés he hated. 

Rapoport had pulled him into a meeting about the future of _It’s Alive_ and it had run considerably longer than he’d anticipated. Clearly too long for Claire and the crew to wait for him. That’s how it went sometimes, he supposed. 

It was just another sign in a long line of universal signs that things were changing, that their lives were diverting and taking them in opposite directions. While _It’s Alive_ was taking him out of the kitchen with more frequency, _Gourmet Makes_ was taking Claire’s rising star out of reach—book deals, fashion collaborations, interviews and podcasts, and a custom Bon Appétit schedule. 

He sighed and pushed himself off the walk-in door, grabbed his backpack and glasses, and headed out of the kitchen. He was done for the day—emails answered, plane tickets booked for the upcoming _It’s Alive_ shoot in Wyoming, and his schedule sorted for the next few weeks. 

The bottle of kombucha Claire brought him sat next to his computer and he stared at it for a moment before gently picking it up and tucking it into the side pocket of his backpack. It didn’t matter how jealous he was, how far it felt that they’d drifted, there would never be a day that he didn’t treasure a thoughtful gift from Claire Saffitz. The jar of yellow starbursts with his name carefully outlined in stickers on his desk and the one-time used tube of cherry chapstick in his backpack’s front pocket was evidence of that.

Slipping his sunglasses on and hoisting his backpack over his shoulder, he stepped out of the kitchen and headed home to pack for his early morning flight. 

Maybe the Wyoming air would do him and his heart some good. 

______________

“Hey, Hunzi,” Claire called out, helping Rhoda and the team wipe down her workstation. “You seen Brad around? I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

Hunzi looked uneasy, dipping his tea bag in and out of the hot water in his mug. “He left a few hours ago. I think he wanted to get a head start on packing or something.”

Claire frowned. She had spoken to Brad this morning and he hadn’t said anything about traveling. She tossed the rag aside and shot Rhoda an apologetic look as she abandoned the team to talk to Hunzi.

“Packing? Is he going on vacation or—“

Her friend looked uneasy. “We’re going to Wyoming for a week to shoot. I thought you knew…”

“No,” she said softly, bitterly. “He didn’t say anything.”

He had stood there this morning, accepted her peace offering, promised to be around, and hadn’t said a word. She thought about the way he’d left her pop-up last night, the way his smile hadn’t reached his eyes as much lately, the way he seemed to not be around, and now this.

She swallowed down a pang of hurt and tried to wave Hunzi off, tried to cover. “You know what—maybe he did say something,” she said with a hollow laugh. “I just have kitchen brain. Um, thanks, Hunzi.”

Hunzi put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. “Listen, Claire, I know it’s not my place to say, but between you and me, I think Brad’s really been missing you. But you know how he is sometimes. He can be as stubborn as you,” he added fondly.

Claire looked up at him, brow furrowed. “ _Missing_ me? But I—I’ve _been right here._ I don’t understand.” She frowned. “And I’m _not_ stubborn.”

Her friend withdrew his hand, sipped at his tea, looked at her with a sad shake of his head. “I’m just calling it like I see it, okay?”

He disappeared down the hall and Claire frowned after him, fingers twisting into her apron pocket, confused. It wasn’t like Brad to keep secrets, to leave her behind. First the apron deal and now this—leaving the kitchen early when he knew she wanted to talk to him and not telling her about Wyoming?

“Hey, Rhoda? We’re good here, right? I gotta—I gotta go.”

She didn’t wait for a response, just tugged the apron off and over her head, grabbed her bag, and headed for the New Jersey ferry.

______________

It hits her like a ton of bricks that she’s potentially making a wild mistake by showing up at his doorstep unannounced. Even though she may not have Brad’s direct line to the universe and her intuition about feelings and emotions may be a little skewed, she can _feel_ something off with him now. 

The line of herbs and shrubs planted so precisely, trimmed back perfectly, along the pathway to his front door makes her smile. If baking is her stress relief, gardening is Brad’s. His herbs are lush and verdurous and she barely resists the urge to lean down and bury her nose in the soft looking sage and aromatic rosemary while she waits for him to open the door, knuckles stinging with the force of her knock. 

He looks exhausted and surprise when he opens the door, presses his palm against the doorframe and leans into it. “Claire? What are you doin’ here? Thought you had Warheads going on?”

“Oh, yeah, no. I mean, yes, but we wrapped up. I went looking for you and Hunzi said you were packing?”

He looked over her shoulder, squinting, fingers flexing on the door. “Yeah, yeah. Me and the boys are flying out first thing tomorrow for a bit. They got me doin’ some cattle herding and some mountain gardening or some shit.” He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. “Did you need somethin’? I didn’t see you call or nothin’. And I _know_ I showed you where the dehydrator and vacuum sealer are being stored these days.”

She frowns at his tone. She thinks he’s trying to tease, trying to be light-hearted like they always are. But something doesn’t quite hit the right note, some spark doesn’t reach his eyes or the corners of his upturned, small smile. 

“Brad,” she says softly, stepping forward. “What is going on? You just left today without saying anything and then last night—“

Brad stands up straight, smile dropping from his face. “Look, Claire, I’m sorry about last night, alright? I really didn’t mean to crash the party. Just wanted to come out and see ya.”

“Yeah, I _know._ I don’t want you to be sorry. I’m glad you came! I’m just trying to understand why you think I didn’t want to know you were going to Wyoming? Or why I woudln’t want you there last night? Or fuck,” she says, anger replacing the hurt and confusion in her heart, a good ole fashioned rant building up. “Why did you think I wouldn’t want to know about your _apron_ collab, too? I thought were were in this thing together.”

She thinks about the two of them all those years ago sitting on the back balcony with wine glasses in hand, unsure about this YouTube and video content venture, and Brad’s unfailing optimism in the face of change.

_I’m tellin’ ya, Claire. You’re goin’ places._

_She had laughed and corrected him._ We’re _going places._

But now, Brad shrugs and won’t look her in the eyes. “Hell, I don’t know, Claire. It happened—I got the call about the collab and you weren’t around. You seem pretty busy these days and I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Bother me?” Her voice is high pitched, the way it gets when emotions are too close to the surface and she can’t keep them in. For all the roads she’s found herself on, she never thought she was on a road away from him.

“Brad, the last time I checked, my number was the same. Even if I’m not around, you can still talk to me.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and she realizes she’s _angry_. Because it feels like Brad has made a decision about their relationship, about their friendship, without consulting her, without giving her the chance to fix something she didn’t even know was broken. 

Brad looks unimpressed with her attitude and appearance on his doorstep, barefoot and leaning against the doorjamb, matching her stance with his arms crossed and looking so, _so_ tired.

“What do you want from me, Claire? Hell, what are you doin’ in Jersey? Ain’t never been here before, why now?”

“Because you seem mad or, or disappointed in me. And I don’t know what I did.”

He looks at her, eyes narrowed, thinking, before the fight seems to go out of him. He sags against the door and shakes his head, rubs at his eyes.

“S’nothing, Claire. Go home. We’re good.”

It’s dismissive and final and so unlike him and she hates that she’s missed a step somewhere. 

She steps forward on his stoop, acutely aware that she hasn’t been invited in, that he doesn’t want her to stay. 

“It _is_ something,” she pushes. She reaches for him but stops halfway, scared of him pulling back. Her hand falls to her side. “I’m not too busy for you, Brad,” she insists. “Not you.”

He huffs, grits his teeth and flexes his jaw. “Yeah, well. Don’t feel like that these days, Claire. You don’t show up for the podcast and you’re barely in the kitchen. You don’t respond to the shit I send you on Instagram or whatever. I just—I got the hint, okay.”

She frowns at him, feeling that the criticism was unfair. “Me? _I’m_ barely in the kitchen? Brad, you’ve been there like five times in the last 3 months. I’ve barely seen you. It’s like—“ A thought comes to her as she takes in the way he won’t meet her eye. “It’s like you’re intentionally not coming to the kitchen when I’m there.”

He drops his head, shifts his weight. “Yeah, well, figured it was just easier that way.”

“What are you saying?” She asks, tears stinging her eyes, hurt solidifying in her chest. “You—You don’t want to be my friend anymore?”

She hates how small she sounds. 

“C’mon Claire, that’s not what I said. I—I wanted—“ He groans, looks around like an animal backed into the corner and she can feel something slipping between them, breaking and cracking. He looks at her, blue eyes glassy and unfocused. “We weren’t really friends,” he says softly.

“Yes we were,” she says stubbornly, angrily.

“Well I didn’t want to be friends!” 

It comes out like an explosion and he breathes harshly, surprised by his own outburst. He pushes himself off the doorjamb and runs a hand through his hair. “God, Claire, I wanted us—Doesn’t matter now. Look, I need to pack and I—I need some time. Okay? I just need to get my head on straight.”

“Brad, what—“

“Bye, Claire.”

For the second time today, he walks away, leaving Claire more hurt and confused than ever with nothing more than a soft click of the door in her face. 

______________

Two and a half hours later and one good cry on the ferry later, her phone beeps with a message from him which she opens with shaky fingers. 

_I shouldnt have shut you out like that. Im sorry. Let’s talk when I get back. I got shit to tell you._

She mouths the words as she reads the message, re-reads _shut you out_ and wonders if he meant closing the door in her face or something else. In any case, the message back is the same. Because no matter how hurt, how angry, it’s still _Brad._

It’s still _them._

She types out the response quickly and lets out a shaky, watery breath, wiping at the last of the tears at the corner of her eyes.

_I’ll be here. Safe travels._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a selection of thoughts:  
> 1\. im fully aware we're in melodramatic, lowkey OOC sadness angst levels but god it's therapeutic and fun to write
> 
> 2\. it was SO HARD to write the angst after the milky way ep BUT the sad brad and joint sad brad/claire montages really got me through
> 
> 3\. im working on cape cod smut so at least there's that coming
> 
> 4\. let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know. But I had most of this part of the story already written and I just needed to wrap this one up so I could focus on other fics without my mind wandering here. 
> 
> It's a little rushed, a little soap opera-y, but I have some of my favorite lines I've ever written in this fic (that's okay to say, right?)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this dumb angsty ride with me!

A week later, Claire finds herself in the test kitchen early again, hair clipped back and hands once again anxiously stuffed into the front pockets of her apron. It’s been exactly one week since Brad left her behind with a sorry excuse for an apology and a promise to explain everything when he gets back.

Today is that day.

Throughout the day, she eyes the door, waiting for the rest of the crew to wander into the kitchen. She watches Hunzi and Kevin and the sound crew of _It’s Alive_ traipse back in through the kitchen one by one, waits for Brad to come in right behind them with his arms wide open, grinning and announcing his triumphant return.

But there is no Brad, no loud announcement, nothing.

The smile falls from her face, a frown taking its place. She wanders over to where Hunzi is making himself an espresso, rummaging through the communal cookie jar for the perfect snack. 

“Hey Hunzi, where’s Brad? I didn’t see him scheduled off today. He flew back with you guys, right?

Hunzi freezes, looks over at Kevin for help, won’t meet her eyes and instead fiddles with his coffee cup. “Oh, yeah no. He, uh, he wanted to stay behind.”

Claire raises an eyebrow, waiting. This isn’t new. Brad stays on a few extra days for fun almost everywhere he goes. It doesn’t warrant the way Hunzi and the rest of the crew are looking, like they’re about to break news to her. Dread and panic and anxiety rise in her throat.

“Hunzi?”

The worry seems to deflate her friend and he finally meets her eyes. “I’m sorry, Claire. I tried to get him to call you and tell you.”

“Tell me what? C’mon this isn’t funny. Is he okay?” She can hear the panic, the fright in her voice. Something is _wrong_.

“Brad’s, uh, well he’s staying on in Wyoming for a bit.”

“What does ‘a bit; mean? Like, a few days?”

Before he answers, she knows what’s coming. 

“For a few weeks, Claire. He needs some time.”

Hunzi keeps talking, she knows he is. But he sounds far away and muffled. Nothing feels real.

Brad is gone.

And he didn’t even say goodbye.

She’s going to kill him.

_______________

Brad in Wyoming is doing his best to recenter himself and get his head on straight and stuff his heart back in his chest. He doesn’t think about how long it’s been dangling from his sleeve, ignored.

He hikes and cooks outdoors and breathes in mountain air and writes, deletes, rewrites, and deletes again a dozen text messages to her. It doesn’t feel right telling her through text message that he was desperately in love with her and is trying to get over her, to let her go. 

She texts him every day, at least once a day; won’t let him go that easily, it turns out. Mostly angry texts—and rightly so. She tells him he’s an asshole (he is), that he’s really fucking stupid (yup, can’t argue that one), and that he better call her to at least let her know he’s okay.

He ignored all of her messages, didn’t know how to get what was in his stupid, bleeding heart into words to make her understand that he’d felt replaced and unimportant, left behind. 

It’s Day 12 when she stops sending him messages. It’s Day 12 and 2 seconds when he realizes he’s not ready to let her go, not yet.

He still doesn’t have the words so he books her a flight to Wyoming and emails her (that’s where all the important offers go, he remembers) wth a single message: 

_Please come._

He attaches the flight information and hopes that when he drives to the airport to pick her up in two days, she’ll be there.

_______________

Claire stares at the email from him, wonders if punching her laptop would be covered under the warranty. It’s so fucking audacious and ballsy of him to just _assume_ she’d drop everything for him like this. Her finger hovers over the print button of the ticket, mouth twisted indecisively.

On the one hand: She didn’t want to lose him and _something_ clearly was going on that he finally felt ready to talk about. On the other: He had hurt her, left her behind with no good reasons.

She sighed and pushed herself back from the computer. What she needed was to bake it out—pound some butter into thin sheets or smack a disk of pie dough with her pin. She needed to think it through.

_______________

In the Wyoming airport, Brad waits with his hands stuffed in pockets and watches streams of people pile out, families and adventurers and couples on their honeymoon.

But there’s no grey-haired stick of dynamite grinning at him—or, more likely, ready to deck him, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

His heart sinks to his stomach, disappointment making his mouth bitter. Grief, like the final end of a relationship, like a break up, grips him. He lets out a shaky breath, adjusts his hat, and watches as the flight attendants begin to close the gate.

And then. 

_And then._

“You walking away again?”

He turns, heart soaring back into his throat, pounding uncomfortably. He takes the verbal barb, ducks his head to gather himself before looking at her.

She’s beautiful—of course she is. Her hair is a riot and she’s dressed in jeans and the Springsteen shirt he used to trace a finger over the tour dates on her back, telling her about all the shows he’d seen and the ones he’d wished he’s seen. 

He falls in love with her all over again. 

“Heya, Claire.”

Her eyes narrow at him and she marches over to him, drops her bag to the floor, and stares at him with her hands on her hips for a moment, considering.

_Smack._

“Ow! What the hell, Harvard?”

Brad holds a hand to his stinging cheek, more shocked than anything. Claire is fuming, mouth working without forming words. 

“You! You! You—“ Her voice cracks and her face crumples and he gets there just in time to get his arms around her waist as she falls forward and buries her face in his chest, sniffling, arms reaching up around his neck.

“I’m so mad at you,” she mumbles into his chest, pushing closer, holding him tighter.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment,just holds her, lets his heart get reacquainted with her. “Yeah,” he finally says with a gruff voice. “I’m pretty mad at me, too.”

When they disentangle, he reaches for her bag and slings it over his shoulder and tells her he’s on metered parking and to hurry up, slowpoke. 

She watches him part a gap in the crowd for her to follow in his wake, cheek still warm from their hug, and wondering what the hell she’s gotten herself into out here in Wyoming.

_______________

The car ride to whatever backwoods cabin Brad has rented out is filled mostly with Brad’s nervous, stuttering ramblings about the town and what it has to offer. 

Claire’s content to just sit quietly, let Brad do the talking. He does this, fills the silence when she clams up. 

She‘s mad at him, hurt at being left behind, confused. But it’s still _Brad_ and he’s still drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and pointing out his favorite cow in the pasture on the left (“I call her Booch and she’s an excellent listener.”) and he still looks at her like he’s scared to look too long.

When they pull into the driveway, she hasn’t said much but she knows one thing: She’s as in love with him as ever and she’s missed him and she needs to at least try to fix this between them. Because she’s pretty damn sure he loves her, too. 

They’re two feet into the doorway when Claire breaks, crosses her arms over her chest, takes a deep breath and tries to keep her voice from shaking.

“What the _hell_ , Brad?” 

He winces, drops her luggage by the couch, rubs a hand over his neck. “Yeah, I, uh, needed some time.”

“And there’s no time in New York?”

Brad huffs and begins to pace, can feel every thought and feeling building until it’s rising and itching to burst from his mouth. This isn’t how he wanted to do this. He’s not sure he wanted to do this at all, but he’s gotta find a way to do it. He can’t stay in Wyoming forever. 

“Brad! C’mon, talk to me.”

This time, Brad snaps. He turns to her, all the anger and hurt and helplessness breaking the dam of self-control.

“Jesus Christ, Claire, give me time to think! You never give me time to just fucking think or-or decide how I feel. You’re always pushing my buttons and then walking away!”

It’s unfair and they both know it. If anyone pushes buttons and runs, it’s him. 

“I don’t even know what that means! And _I_ walk away? Brad, look around.” She gestures to the rustic cabin and the cows out the window. “You’re the one who stayed in Wyoming! You’re the one who didn’t even have the courage to tell me you weren’t coming back! You—“

“Yeah and what about you, huh, Claire?”

The sharpness of their voices shock them both but they can’t stop. It’s never been like this between them—sharp and edgy. Something is broken and they’re both going to cut themselves on its edges.

“What do you mean what about me?” she asks defensively. 

He barks a harsh laugh, dry and devoid of all humor. “Claire, you been walkin’ away since day one. Shit gets tough in the kitchen? You give up.”

“That’s not true!” Tears sting at her eyes but she won’t let them fall. She’s come so far since then.

“You left and then you never really came back. You got a foot out the door, Claire. Don’t deny it. And hey,” he huffs another humorless laugh. “I get it. We all kinda knew you’d leave eventually, I just didn’t think you’d leave so fast. Or that I’d be replaced on the way out the door with fucking _Delany_. But that’s the Claire way, right? The old version wasn’t good enough—not the right job, not the right friend—so scrap and start over, right?”

Claire stares at him, crosses her arms tighter across her chest for protection against his words. A tear slips out the corner of her eye and she wipes at it quickly, chest tight with the weight of his words.

But her bottom lip wobbles and his words sink in and she can’t be strong.

“Fuck you,” she whispers before turning on her heel and pushing the door open, leaving Brad behind once more.

Brad watches her go, breathing heavily, before sagging and collapsing into the couch, her luggage still at his feet.

“Fuck.”

Not how he wanted this to go at all.

_______________

Brad goes after her to find her curled up on herself, sitting on the front porch steps, wiping at tears. He sits down next to her with a sigh.

They’re silent for a moment, unsure how to wade through the hurt, the miscommunication. He doesn’t know where he made a left turn and she made a right. 

He’s got shit for brains but he knows his heart and he knows this is its last shot. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, reaching for her before changing his mind, hand falling between them. “That was way the fuck over the line and I—I didn’t mean that. God, Claire, my head is all over the fuckin’ place.”

She stays silent, doesn’t look at him. This isn’t the future he wants for them. If it’s together, let it be together. If it’s apart, he doesn’t want to leave things like this: torn and bleeding. 

“Okay, I’m gonna say some things but I’m not too good with words so like, freakin’ bare with me for two seconds, okay?”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with your words in there,” she says coolly, still not looking at him.

It stings, but he doesn’t say anything, knows it’s deserved. He’s been acting like a complete ass. Brad tucks his hand back into his lap, swallows past the lump in his throat. Before he can apologize further, before he can explain, it’s Claire who speaks.

“God, how did this happen? You were one of my best friends.”

_Were_. Brad lets the sharp barb of the past tense settle over him. 

She shakes her head, looks out over the horizon. “And now, what? We’re in fucking Wyoming? Brad, what the hell is going on? This isn’t us.” When she finally does look at him, her eyes are watery and pleading. “Is this my fault?” she whispers. “Did I—Did I hurt you?”

“Christ, Claire. _No_. This is—this is me. I ain’t too good at talkin’ bout my feelings—“

“I thought you were Mr. Sensitive,” she teases, tries to lighten the tension with a touch of their old banter. But it falls flat on their open wounds. 

“Yeah, well, you’re kinda the exception to all my rules, Saffitz.”

“What—what does that even mean?”

“It means—it means—“ Christ, when did _talking_ to her get this hard? He tries again: “See, it’s like this.” 

He searches for the words: how he misses her and their late night texts because he knows she’s doing last-minute research; he misses the way they used to sneak out of the office to get shitty hot dogs in Central Park and feed the buns to the ducks; he misses the way she used to look at him, like he was goddamn Superman. 

“Brad?” She touches his arm, worried at his silence. His eyes drift from her face down to her hands—so small and perfect—on his body. 

He hears her breath catch as he covers her hand with his own, tangles their hands together, strokes his thumb over the inside of her wrist. 

“It’s like this,” he reiterates, voice soft and gruff, squeezing softly and feeling her pulse pounding beneath the thin skin of her wrist. 

“ _Oh,”_ she breathes out, eyes on their joined hands.

She shakes her head, tugs her hand free of his. He lets her go, tries to not think how empty his hand feels without her holding it.

“But you _left_ ,” she insists, pushing herself to her feet and pacing across the porch. “You just shut me out. That’s not okay, Brad. Even if—even if—“

He watches her struggle to say the words out loud, can see her cheeks flushing with emotion. He stands, steps in front of her and stops her pacing.

She looks up at him, eyes watery and breath coming fast.

“Even if I’m in love with you?” 

“Don’t,” she says harshly, trying to pull away from him. He tightens his hands on her shoulders, ducks his head to meet hers.

“Don’t say it why, Claire? Huh? Don’t act like you didn’t know! Fuck, _everyone_ knew!”

“I _didn’t_ ,” she insists. “Not for sure.”

“Bullshit.” He won’t let her run, won’t let her deny this. If she doesn’t feel the same anymore, that’s one thing. But he’s certain there was something once.

“What do you want from me?” she whispers, going limp in his arms, palms pressed flat against his chest. “So we felt something for each other and, what? We missed our chance and you ran to Wyoming?”

He takes a deep breath, lifts a hand to her face, cups her cheek and lets the tips of his fingers brush over her cheek and push into her hair. He watches her eyes flutter close, watches her try to fight the urge to turn into his hand.

He figures he has nothing else to lose, might as well go for broke.

“Did we, Claire? Did we miss our chance?”

Claire’s bottom lip wobbles and her eyes open, meeting his determined, desperate gaze. Her fingers curl into the soft shirt and she marvels at the feel of his heart pounding beneath her fingertips.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. Brad pushes his hand further into her hair, tilts her head up.

“I do,” he insists fiercely. “Does your big fuckin’ brain need to hear the words?”

“Brad—“ She starts, heart pounding with panic and anticipation.

“I love you,” he tells her. “So goddamn much, Claire. I tried to stop, fuckin’ ran to Wyoming as you keep pointin’ out. But you followed me out here, too. That means something.”

Tears slip down her cheek, she can’t help it. He’s so earnest, so sure. For so long, she thought she’d imagined the feelings between them, the build-up. And now he’s here, holding her and telling her everything she used to fantasize about. 

“You love me?” she asks, brain still processing everything. 

“Yeah,” he says fondly. “Pretty much since day one.”

She thinks back to her first day at BA: Brad giving her the tour of the kitchen and showing her where all the baking equipment was, winking and telling her if she sneaks out early he won’t tell anyone. She thinks of every almost: almost touches, almost confessions, _almost_.

It didn’t matter that their paths diverged at some point, they were here, together. 

They hadn’t missed out on anything.

She slides her hands up over his shoulder, pushing up on her tiptoes to get them around his neck.

“I’m still mad at you,” she says right before sliding her mouth over his, kissing him softly.

Brad doesn’t waste a moment. He gathers her in his arms, pulls her against him tightly and groans into the kiss. Her heels come up off the porch, kicking back behind her as she wraps herself around him, tongue slipping between his lips and gliding over his tongue. 

He breaks the kiss and lowers her back to the ground, kisses her cheek and nose and forehead and buries his face in her neck, breathing her in and holding her tight.

“I’m so sorry,” he tells her over and over again, peppering each declaration with a soft kiss to her neck, the curve of her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He knows he owes her a thousand more sorrys and at _least_ a hundred iced coffees. 

She clings to him just as fiercely, just as desperately, chasing away every _almost_.

He pulls back, cups her cheek and wipes the stray tears from her face. “We probably got more to talk about and you probably have more yellin’ and hittin’ to do—“

“You deserve it,” she mutters fondly, reaching up with shaky fingertips to trace a line over his bottom lip. 

“I do,” he agrees, nipping at the pad of her finger. “But I was kinda hopin’ we could put that on hold and you’d want to stay out here with me for the rest of the week.”

She nods and pushes herself up onto her tiptoes, kissing him softly. “Okay,” she murmurs against his lips before pressing another soft kiss there, sucking at his bottom lip. “Okay.”

(A few hours later in New York, Adam Rapoport opens an email from Claire with a request for vacation time and a single photograph attached to the message: a picture of Brad, Claire, and a black-and-white cow captioned _Booch_. He smirks and approves the time off before going down to the kitchen to find Carla. He has a betting pool to collect on.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I //told// you guys it would be fine in the end!

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i know ANOTHER multichap bc im a monster. but at least this one will be done pretty quickly. just hang in there. but it's gonna get sadder before it gets better.


End file.
